


Will You Lay Down Your Armor

by InvincibleRodent



Series: Raymond Trevelyan [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Male Warrior Trevelyan - Freeform, Minor Explicit Language, Original Male Character - Freeform, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 11:10:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3848758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvincibleRodent/pseuds/InvincibleRodent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coming to the Inquisitor's quarters, Dorian expects it to be like any other time- he takes what he wants and his leave. But things don't always go the way we expect them, and Raymond Trevelyan is a confusing man.</p><p>EDIT (2016-05-16): This was my first work in about eight years, and my very first one written in English. I like to think that I have learned a lot since then, and I'm not nearly this dramatic anymore. :) That being said, this IS my most popular piece, so I'm not going to orphan it- just please, don't use this as a basis for gauging the nature (and quality) of the rest of my work. <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will You Lay Down Your Armor

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "Two Men In Love" by The Irrepressibles (which was the soundtrack of about 85% of my writing process and my go-to song for these two nerds)  
> I like adjectives and religious imagery in wildly inappropriate settings

Hard. Fast. Primal. Just like he’s used to, just the way it’s supposed to be.

Tentative hands that come to slide up his sides are slapped away, and he flashes a wicked grin- he’s unashamedly basking in the reverence, the enrapturement, the naked _adoration_ with which the Inquisitor stares up at him. An alluring sight, with his irises but a ring of blue around blown-out pupils, jaw slackened, and sweat beading on his brow; the anointed Herald of Andraste, the mighty Inquisitor, completely powerless under the Tevinter mage’s insistent, selfish chase after his completion. His, and only his own.

Dorian is no stranger to lustful, intense worship of his body. He knows perfectly how he must look, how otherworldly gorgeous he is in this moment- There is an art to how he displays his slim, yet powerful body, bending it to a perfect bow shape; how he parts his lips, bruised bright red and slick from aggressive, biting kisses; how his head rolls back to expose the bites and bruises adorning the stretch of his neck. A shade most flattering against his bronze skin, reminiscent of the color of sweet wine.

He is a work of art, a seraphim descended straight from the Maker’s side- a demon of desire, and he doesn’t even need blood magic to possess this man completely, to get him to do his bidding.

  
If silence is a virtue, he is a saint- most all noise dies in his throat, tight and under his impeccable control. The strain deep in his muscles makes his limbs quiver, sinews cord and muscles vibrate with a delicious kind of burn. He dictates a frantic, breakneck pace the Inquisitor can barely keep up with- their breath but the ragged, desperate gasps of drowning men; wordless demands of faster, harder, _more_ , and the warrior eagerly succumbs, he gives and gives and _gives_ , all he has to offer.

Dorian rolls his hips into each thrust with the vigor of a delirious zealot, and he gnaws on his lower lip as a hot flash of white behind his lids blinds him- the Inquisitor slams all his weight into that one spot, so good, so thick; his cock fills him so perfectly, the bite of pain from the rapid stretch long forgotten, lost in the waves of unhinged pleasure.  
The mage’s name falls from Raymond’s lips as a breathless whisper, his eyes screw shut in bliss; blunt, rough fingers dig into the flesh of Dorian’s hips with enough force to bruise, and the warrior all but slams him down onto himself- impales him, bucking wildly into each powerful thrust like the barbarian he is, his mask of composure and the shackles of convention shaken off, shattered.

This is what they wanted. This is raw, animalistic fucking, this is two men using each other’s bodies as the Maker intended. This is pleasure, nothing but carnal desire that makes his body roil; filthy, obscene, corrupt mockery of an act of love.

Warm, defiant tears prickle behind Dorian’s eyes. He groans deep in his throat as a calloused hand grips his cock, each firm stroke forces him further and further into the whirlpool of pleasure, in the depth of which there is naught but perverse fulfillment.

His orgasm is sudden, intense- like a crack of a whip, lightning bolts down his spine, and it blows every thought out of his mind. The Inquisitor’s name, he swallows from the tip of his tongue as he spends over the man’s stomach and chest in spurts; an opaque dollop even goes as far as to get caught in the stubble on his chin. Dorian convulses violently with each pulse of his release, internal muscles squeeze, and Raymond lets out the tortured grunt of a beast in agony for each tremor that runs over the both of them. His heels dig into the mattress, head thrown back, and his jaw slacks in a silent cry.

Barely a few erratic, rhythmless jerks of his hips, and his finish follows. Handsome features twist into a grotesque grimace, and he bites down hard enough to almost break the skin of his lip, just to keep from howling. He arches off the bed, his grip squeezes Dorian down and he comes deep, deep inside.

The waves of warmth flooding his insides make the mage shiver, each sends sparks of bliss along his body- every inch of him sings in pleasure as he insistently rides out his orgasm, wringing more and more noise, more tremors, more, more, _more_ out of the Inquisitor. More, until there is not a drop left, more, and the man flops unceremoniously back onto the overstuffed mattress; more, until he’s limp and used up.

Dorian crumples, boneless and oversensitive- first onto the Inquisitor’s chest, then he pushes himself off, dodging the other man’s half-hearted attempt to steal a kiss. As if he hadn’t even noticed the intent.

The time for that is over. A small pang of hurt flashes in his chest, but he quickly dismisses it as the usual post-coital rush of hormones and emotions- nothing to be concerned about, gone as fast as it came. Kissing after sex is something _lovers_ do.

Raymond sighs in satisfaction- he tugs a fistful of the covers over himself, and Dorian winces inwardly when the Inquisitor uses the fine silk -hand-embroidered to perfection, adorned with vines and flowers in an Orlesian style which means it is just as costly as it is ostentatious; a generous gift from Lord Whatever of Whocares- to wipe his torso somewhat clean of the release pooling in the lines between his muscles.

“Impressive distance.” Ray rasps with a pleased grin as he rubs the fabric over his face as well. His voice carries the edge of a severe hangover; dazed and worn-out.  
The mage doesn’t answer. Feigning sleep is one of the fastest ways to get rid of pesky awkwardness and squeeze out the last moments of comfort from such... clandestine encounters. As an enjoyable side-benefit, it also gives his partner an opportunity to slip away, make himself presentable, and leave. Dorian almost furrows his brow when the hand that was grasping his hip kneads affectionately at the crescent moon-shaped indents on the abused flesh; it’s almost apologetic, a striking contrast with their frenzied coupling. Those warm fingers trace each little mark, stroke up his shoulder blades, caress the back of his neck, come up to brush hair out of his forehead... He resists the urge to crack an eye open.

“Well, I’ll give you that- you weren’t kidding about _‘primal’_.” The Inquisitor’s voice but a soft murmur, and Dorian doesn’t stiffen when the desecrated covers are draped over his damp body, even though his insides clench at the tenderness of the gesture. _No._ Chapped lips breathe a kiss onto his temple. _No, no, no._  
The pull of the Fade, like tendrils of a vile bog, clings to him, and for once, it’s an attractive escape. He drifts to sleep.

The sun is at its meridian when Dorian cracks open a bleary eye, and finds himself still wrapped up in the Inquisitor’s arms. He scrambles to his feet as quickly as he can without waking the man; the last tatters of a pleasant, dreamless sleep are shaken from his mind in that instant.

Of course, he scoffs to himself. This is the Inquisitor we’re talking about- the man who spent hours scouting the Hinterlands for some farmer’s blighted ram; the one who all but force-fed him their last healing potion _-over something that looked worse than it felt as well-_ and graciously powered through injuries that would have made giants squirm- a man so shamefully _nice_ , Dorian was certain he would apologize to the dirt on his shoes for stepping on it. What is a couple extra hours of his precious time to him, even if it’s with someone like the mage- someone with as much value as a used tissue, a broken quill, trash waiting to be disposed of after it has served its purpose.

Dorian runs a hand through his mussed, damp hair without an intent of making it look any better- hoping for that as well would just be setting himself up for even more disappointment. He paces around the room in search of his various items of clothing, and he briefly curses his past urgency to rid himself of them... Just to feel those hands pawing at every inch of skin, tugging and groping and grasping for more... The breeze from the open window cools his head pleasantly.

He hears the shifting of fabric from the general direction of the bed, and Raymond grunts as he pushes himself up on his elbows. He lets out a yawn and flashes a lazy, fucked-out smile- the mage feels his heart flutter ever so slightly at the sight. He quickly rearranges his features to mirror casual, but friendly aloofness.

“Hey, you.” Raymond rasps, his voice deliciously low, strained, thick with sleep. Positively heartwrenching. Dorian elects to let it bounce off him, the walls around him reconstructed in barely more than a forceful release of air through his nose. He feels like sneering.

“I like your quarters.” he says nonchalantly, with a dismissive wave of his hand, as if surveying his surroundings was the sole purpose of his stroll all along- the fact that he is completely naked is but a mere coincidence. He saunters back to the bed, every ounce the elegant nobleman.

“Do you now.”

“Don’t misunderstand, I’m not suggesting we venture into mutual domesticity. I just like your appointments.”

Raymond furrows his brows in concern, and shifts his weight onto one arm- the other hand brushes the mage’s lower back, almost just an accident, and Dorian shifts away discreetly.

“Not that I couldn’t suggest some changes. Your taste is a little.... austere.”

“You seem... distracted.” The Inquisitor sits up, the jab studiously ignored, and Dorian smiles- _just keep up the facade, just keep it light. Stomp out the affection welling in the pit of your belly. That softness in his eyes is not for you, it has never been for you, and it never will be for you._

“Sex will do that. It’s distracting.” he nods, pensive.

“I heard a rumor.”

If only he would stop the gentle brushes of his fingers against the mage’s skin, maybe the gooseflesh raising on his arms wouldn’t give him away. Dorian curses to himself, and lets a deep sight fall from his lips- disgusting, the ease with which those worried, kicked puppy eyes slip past all his defenses, leap over and slither around walls. _This man is just as dangerous in the bedroom as he is on the battlefield. How infuriating._

“Very well, you’ve rooted me out.” he breathes, turning his gaze away, before he could even stop himself. “There is something I want.”

A brief silence drapes over them as Raymond shifts, and the mattress- soft, yet springy, a small luxury in this world gone mad- dips under his weight as he sits next to the mage, and he looks at Dorian with the same unashamed fascination that is normally reserved for Andraste herself. The mage swallows past the small lump in the back of his throat.

“I’m.... curious where this goes, you and I.” He dares not turn back to look at the Inquisitor. There is no telling what he might see. He dares not hope it’s what he wants it to be. “We’ve had fun, perfectly reasonable to leave it here, get on with the business of killing archdemons and such.”

One glance from the corner of his eye, and he sees hurt. Dorian almost grimaces- the Inquisitor’s expression reminds him of a wounded animal, and his heart sinks to the level of his stomach. Maybe even into it, that would explain the sting he feels. Maybe it’s the bitter acid bubbling in him that’s slowly eroding him from the inside.

“Tell me what you want.” The Inquisitor asks, although it hardly sounds like a question.

“All on me then?”

“Should it be all on me?”

Dorian releases another deep sigh. What a _profoundly_ frustrating man. He’s going to be the death of him, Dorian already knows it.

“I like you. More than I should. More, that might be wise.” he says suddenly, and immediately wishes he could suck the words back before they are heard, collect them like marbles scattered on the floor, but it is too late- they tumble from his lips, water from a shattered jug. The Blight take that disarming, puppy-eyed gaze. “We end it here, I walk away. I won’t be pleased, but I’d rather now than later. Later... might be dangerous.”

Raymond’s nervous apprehensiveness is palpable as his eyes rake down Dorian’s face. He doesn’t answer for a long time. Too long.

“Why dangerous?” he asks finally _-if only he didn’t, just let it go, just let me go, just throw me out and never speak of this again-_ and withdraws his hand.

“Walking away... might be harder then.”

Another moment of silence, strained and awkward, thick with unanswered questions and unsaid words.

“I....” Raymond begins, hesitant- the flush on his cheeks and the tops of his ears clearly visible and remarkably endearing, even in the dimly lit room. _Here it comes,_ the mage braces himself for the impact. There is no way he’ll cry. Maybe later, in the solitude of his bedchambers, where he shall return to lick his wounds, tend to his pride... Maybe stroke himself through his grief to the memory of the man’s cries of pleasure, or get someone, anyone, to fuck the Inquisitor’s name out of his mouth before he drowns himself in alcohol, for old times’ sake...

“I... I want more than just fun, Dorian.”

This silence is stunned, still. As if time itself had done a double-take, and the mage masks his shock with a turn of his head, as if the messy desk -every inch covered in reports, books, loose pieces of parchment, an exquisite chaos- was suddenly the single most fascinating thing in all of Thedas.

“Speechless, I see?” Teasing... yet soft enough to offset the edge completely, and a fine film of wetness clouds Dorian’s vision.

“Where I come from.... anything that that happens between two men... It’s about pleasure. It’s accepted, but taken no further. You learn not to hope for more."

He suspects later those words will be forgotten- all that will be left in his mind are how Raymond hangs onto his every word, his attention focused solely on him, and how that shadow of a frown wrinkles his forehead. The mage feels an urge to kiss those fine lines away, rub at the skin until the man laughs again.

“You’d be foolish to.” he shrugs with a certain finality, although he’s unsure what exactly he is finishing.

“So let’s be foolish.” _How simple it is to say that. How easy it is to believe it._

“Hard habit to break.”

The two finally exchange a smile- his somewhat tentative, the Inquisitor’s warm and reassuring... loving, even, if he dares use that word. That menace of a warrior even goes as far as to drop his voice into its lower registers, a sultry whisper, and cocks one eyebrow. His hand finds its way back to the dimples of Dorian’s back.

“I’m good at breaking things.” he slurs, his voice like honey on gravel, low and rasping.

“Hopefully not everything.” It takes Dorian all his willpower to keep his voice steady through the joy bubbling in his chest. “Care to.... _inquisit_ me again? I’ll be more specific in my directions this time.”

Before Dorian can even react, he finds himself pushed down onto his back with the warrior’s hands on either side of his shoulders, arms tense, face inches from his own.

“Show-off.” the words almost a purr, and the mage feels his spine turn into jelly, his strength melts away under that gaze; like tongues of flame licking his face.

“Before, you barely let me touch you.” Raymond continues, nonchalant, almost as if it was but a comment on the weather. “This time, I plan to take my time. Is that alright?”

The mage barely nods, and his breath is immediately stolen away by the warrior’s lips slanting over his own, swallowing his surprised gasp. This kiss is chaste, innocent in comparison to the wild, frenzied flurry of tongues and lips and teeth from before, and Raymond’s tongue flicks into his mouth, taking advantage of the momentary slip of Dorian’s guard.

For a second, he is unsure how to reciprocate this kind of kiss, these languid, almost lazy brushes of lips- before he could figure it out, Raymond moves to press a kiss onto the corner of his mouth, and begin to draw a slow burning track down his jaw, his throat, spell words of worship on his skin. Their bodies, still somewhat damp, press against each other, their slowly awakening desires sliding together, and Dorian shudders when the Inquisitor lets out a soft moan against his ear.

“Maker’s breath.” he sighs, and nibbles on the junction between the mage’s neck and earlobe, earning himself a shaky breath through clenched teeth.

It is bewildering, how the Inquisitor could be everywhere at once- calloused hands cup Dorian’s face, slide down his chest; a hot mouth sucks on a jugular, trails down his sternum, a tongue playfully flicks a nipple- a knee slides between his legs, and he buckles into the touches.

With a huff of a laugh, Raymond pushes himself back up, and catches Dorian’s lips in another kiss so loving, it almost makes the mage want to sob.

“I’ve been meaning to ask-” the warrior murmurs “am I doing a particularly bad job, or are you just _really_ good at holding your voice?”

 _What gall._ Dorian scoffs in feigned offense.

“One learns a certain restraint in the Circle. But I do apologize, am I not being loud enough?” he smirks through the heat bubbling in his cheeks.

“Not even close. But the day is still young.”

There is barely any need for preparation- the oil is still slick around the mage’s entrance, and Raymond drops his head onto his shoulder with a groan when his fingers slide past the tight ring of muscle, meeting little resistance.

“Sweet _Andraste._ ” he almost whimpers, and scissors- there is something deliciously sacrilegious about the way oil and his own release from before mingle on the hand marked by the Maker’s holy bride.

Dorian arches his back with a hum, and pushes back onto the Inquisitor’s fingers, seeking more, wanting more, and the warrior is beyond happy to oblige.

It is nothing like last time. Last time, Dorian pushed the man down with enough force to make him bounce back; sank onto him so fast, the pain flashed hotly behind his eyelids- it also ripped a hoarse, throaty moan from the Inquisitor that he was sure even Josephine two floors down could hear crystal clear, so in his book, it was worth it. But this time...  
Dorian squirms impatiently as the head of Raymond’s cock slides over his entrance once, twice, three times, and the Inquisitor marvels at the way he all but gasps at each brief prod.

“Is that annoyance, or eagerness I detect in you, my dear?” he murmurs into the mage’s mouth, low and husky and rough with lust, which earns him a chastising bite and a tug on his lower lip.

“Just fuck me already.” Dorian growls. It’s not often he was at the mercy of someone he wanted this bad _-to be fair, it’s not often he wants a man as infuriating as this particular one either-_ , and Maker damn it, his dignity can take this one little nick.

“Patience is a virtue.” A smirk. A sultry, promising one- stupid and arrogant too, but even before Dorian could protest, the warrior silences him with a kiss.

In this emotional whirlwind, the mage barely even registers when Raymond reaches down between them, and lines himself up. A slow, fluid roll of his hips finally pushes him past the muscle, and a moan of his name slips past Dorian’s lips before he could stop it.

He has had lovers who went slow, and insisted on giving him time to adjust before slamming into him in earnest. Not often, not everyone had that kind of courtesy in them, but when it did happen, it was certainly a welcome change of pace... except this time, it’s not enough. Dorian keens, sneers, rakes his nails down the Inquisitor’s arms; sweet revenge for each excruciatingly, _agonizingly_ slow inch, but it only earns him a snarl and a pleasured hiss instead of the heavenly burn he so desires. Raymond comes to a complete stop when his pelvis is flush against the mage’s arse.

A hand comes up to cradle Dorian’s face again, and a scarred thumb brushes along his cheekbone, a gentle request to turn his gaze to meet the warrior’s.

So _disturbingly_ intimate. At this rate, he really might cry.

“You’re breathtaking.” Raymond whispers, his expression one of raw devotion, and Dorian can only let out an undignified whimper as a response. This is torture, such sweet torture; a beautiful agony, a little death.

 _“More-”_ he chokes out, hips jerk on their own accord, blunt nails dig deep into toned shoulders and bite into the skin- red strings follow his touch, tiny erubescent stripes snake down his lover’s back, and Raymond only chuckles, breathless.

“Your wish is my command.”

He had been fucked before. He had been fucked well, thoroughly, in ways that left him walking funny and wincing at the mere thought of a chair the next day, but not like this, never like this. Not in a way that left him shaking, keening, moaning without restraint, unable to do anything but cling to the man above him, breathe him in, already light-headed... The clean scent of soap, frankincense and dragon’s blood fill his lungs, he could get drunk on this scent alone.

He’s everywhere. Dorian struggles to find things to ground himself with, to feel anything other than the man over him, around him, inside him... He’s almost certain that somewhere along the way, his brain has turned to mush, before that theory is torn away from him by an onslaught of pleasure that pillages his mind of all coherent thought.

 

He catches himself smiling down at the man collapsed on his chest; the man whose softening cock is so close to slipping out of him, and they sigh in unison at the loss when it does. Dorian’s heart flutters a bit when Raymond buries his face in the crook of his neck with a content hum, and a muffled noise that he assumes was ‘don’t you dare move’.

“I don’t think I could, even if I were so inclined.” Dorian mutters, amused, and flicks the arm carelessly thrown across his chest. “Partly because you’re heavy, and partly because I’m not entirely positive I have control over my legs. Or that I will have anytime soon.”

Raymond raises his head and flashes a blithe, boyish grin- not a cordial, inquisitorial smile, but one that makes his stomach lurch, one brighter than the sodding Sun itself.

“You’re welcome.” the warrior muses. He pushes himself up on his forearms, leans in for a soft kiss, and Dorian welcomes it.

_How simple, how easy._

“I propose a nap.” Raymond mutters against his lips, and rolls off to lay beside his lover, arm slung above the other man’s head and a coy smirk on his face as he gestures towards his chest, inviting. The mage already feels the cold seeping into his bones, so after a mere few seconds of contemplation, he decides to graciously take the offer.

He tucks himself into the warm embrace, and when those arms close around him, he can’t remember the last time he has felt such bliss.

 

For once, he feels like he belongs.

The heavy scent of recent lovemaking still hangs in the air- a soft, warm blanket. Basking in the afterglow, Raymond caresses the arm laid across his chest with a content smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, his fingers draw idle patterns on the smooth skin. His lover stirs in his sleep with a barely audible grunt, and buries his nose in the dip just above Ray’s clavicle. His mustache tickles.

“You are insufferably warm.” Dorian mumbles, his tongue doesn’t quite turn with the speed he would like it to- it’s as if different parts of him awakened at different times.

“And good morning to you too.” Raymond chimes gleefully.

His hand slides up the mage’s arm to lay on the side of his neck and lift his chin to where he can breathe a peck on his brow. Dorian hums, his eyes open slowly to meet his lover’s, and he squints in vague annoyance at the sudden brightness of the room. _To the Fade with the ancient elves,_ and _their insistence on wall-length windows in a room facing West._

“It’s the middle of the afternoon.” he grumbles, somewhat groggy, and the Inquisitor huffs out an echo of a laugh.

“Do excuse me. In that case, good afternoon.”

The heavy rays of sunshine bounce off the exquisite, Dalish-style mosaics. They paint the room with tiny patches of greens, reds and yellows; little flames, playful wisps dancing on the carpet. The mage catches himself smiling at the smattering of green crawling down the smooth, elegant slope of the warrior’s nose, like a particularly lazy slug. In the back of his mind, he even feels an urge to flick it off.

Raymond stifles a content yawn, and shuffles onto his side, earning himself an ambiguous monosyllable of weak protest when Dorian’s head slips from his shoulder and onto to his bicep. His hand rubs tight, soothing circles on the mage’s hip, almost as an apology, and Dorian notes, not without amusement, that the slug has migrated onto his temple.

 _Like I said, disgustingly intimate,_ Dorian muses with a lazy smile, but that, he cannot say.

“How long do you think until our dear Sister Nightingale drags you away by your earlobe?” he mumbles instead, which earns him a defeated whine.

“See, now you killed the moment.” Raymond rolls his eyes dramatically, betrayed only by the gentle curve of his lips. “You... you moment-murderer. So cruel.”

_So warm._

Dorian doesn’t answer, instead he traces the pads of his fingers along the spiderwebs of scars that chequer the warrior’s chest- he dips them into the dents on his shoulders, left by years and years of heavy armor training, and he’s rewarded with a pleased hum. Raymond’s eyes slide shut as he revels in the moment.

A simple gesture, innocent and restrained, just touching and being touched, yet the sheer familiarity of it is enough to tint Dorian’s ears pink. He isn’t rejected, he isn’t pushed away... Raymond snickers when the almost timid fingers graze his neck.

“That tickles.” He cracks open one eye- just a sliver of raw Nevarrite among the flakes of color that tint his face yellow and green and stain his brandy-colored hair with reddish and blond hues.

The mage would obediently withdraw his hand, but gentle, yet firm fingers guide it back, lay his palm on the stubble-rasped skin of the warrior’s throat.

“No, don’t stop.” Ray smirks, the curve of his lips is teasing and tempting at the same time. Dorian can feel the vibrations of his vocal chords on his fingers. “...Even though your paws are _freezing._ ”

The mage scoffs in a mockery of indignation.

“I’m going to let ‘paws’ slide for now, but excuse me, not all of us can be living furnaces.”

“Oh, is that why you stick so close? Leeching off my body heat?”

“What else are you even good for?” he teases, and the remark earns him a soft laugh that makes him want to hide his face again. He immediately wants to hear it again.

“Ouch.” Ray grins, and gently squeezes his lover’s hip; a suggestion to which Dorian happily obliges, and slides closer, allowing the warrior to tangle their legs and sneak an arm around his waist. Despite their state of undress, there is nothing erotic in the gesture- they just crave contact, any kind of contact.

_Comfortable, warm, lazy._

A finger grazes the skin by Dorian’s eye, and the Inquisitor makes an amused sound.

“That black stuff is all over your face.” he announces with a hint of pride in his voice, as he attempts to wipe away a smudge that somehow found its way onto the mage’s temple. Dorian makes a half-hearted gesture to shoo the hand away.

“It’s your fault, you insatiable lecher.” he grumbles, the accusation lost to his smile. “Pray tell, who insisted on _cuddling_ instead of letting me clean myself up?”

“Do correct me if I’m wrong, but you don’t seem to mind too _terribly_.”

“You can’t let me win even once, can you.”

“Where is the fun in that?”

The mage sighs. _So, so disgustingly intimate._ Sweet, like sugar syrup that leaves your teeth stuck together, your throat dry, and makes your stomach hurt. And Maker, he has to admit this, however bitterly- he wants more. He wants all of it. All that this man is willing to give, and even that wouldn’t be enough.

Before his mind can venture deeper into those treacherous waters, his train of thought is rudely interrupted by a low rumble of an empty stomach, and the violent flush that subsequently blooms on Raymond’s cheeks and sets his ears on fire.

“Physical exercise works up an appetite?” he offers apologetically, and wiggles his way out of the loose embrace. He’s barely standing up, and the cold air already makes goosebumps prickle on Dorian’s skin.

To his credit, it’s hard to stay the perfect gentleman -which he normally is- with the object of one’s affections nonchalantly parading across the room, confident as if in full plate armor, only naked as the day he was born. The mage pushes himself into a sitting position; the covers pool around his waist as he shamelessly ogles the Inquisitor.

Despite the confidence, Raymond’s jellied legs result in an unceremonious, and less than graceful wobble as the _fearsome Lord Inquisitor_ yanks those unnecessarily form-fitting pants over his hips. A sight not many get to behold- Dorian feels a flicker of pride in his chest.

“You move with the grace of a basket of kittens.” he muses.

“Don’t laugh.” Raymond pouts, _His Worship, the Lord Inquisitor, the most powerful man of Thedas pouts_ , and he shrugs on his jacket- he manages to fasten about two of the numerous clasps before he loses interest.

In a half-presentable state -or at least one less likely to give a chambermaid an eyeful more than what she had bargained for-, he saunters back to the bed with a certain swagger in his step. He leans to brush his lips against the mage’s, and frowns into the kiss when Dorian flirtatiously flicks at a button he did manage to clasp.

“Begone, foul Desire Demon, you have no power over me.”

A playful bite. “Oh, but I could have sworn.”

“Alright, you do, way too much, but I’m also hungry for actual food right now.”

“Such ironclad self-control.”

“Another reason Thedas can breathe a collective sigh of relief that I’m not a mage. How do you feel about breakfast?”

“I feel that if you expect me to stand up, you are going to be disappointed.”

“So do I bring food to Lord Pavus, or take Lord Pavus to food?” Raymond grins. “Not going to lie, I would certainly love to see what kind of faces the nobles would make if I were to waltz across the Great Hall, holding the _veeeeeery eeeeeeevil_ and very naked Tevinter mage in my arms. Bridal-style, of course.”

Dorian scoffs at the mental image.

“Considering your state of dress- or undress, rather-, waltzing across the Great Hall alone would already be enough to pique their interest.”

Silence befalls the two when Raymond’s hand comes up, and he brushes the back of his hand against Dorian’s cheek, his gaze soft. A tender gesture that almost makes the mage want to cry again. _Don’t get syrupy on me, for the love of Andraste, don’t make me fall even harder._

“I want you to know--” the warrior begins, his voice quiet and suddenly serious. “--this is the happiest I have been. Ever. With you here, with me, I... I can hardly believe this isn’t a dream.”

 _“_ _Amatus...”_ The word slips before he can even think to stop it. So easy, so... natural. Even though he has never said it and meant it before, right now, it feels right, it feels genuine, and the tears that have threatened to spill one too many times in the past hours finally roll down his face without him even noticing, only to be brushed away by a gentle thumb, kissed away by a pair of lips.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” Raymond whispers against his skin, and brushes his lips against Dorian’s one last time, the arm not supporting him slides to the back of his neck.

“Seems like a fitting occasion to crack open that bottle of West Hill Brandy we’ve been saving, don’t you think?”

Dorian gives an undignified sniffle, but he doesn’t care, not now, and he rubs the back of his hand over his eyes.

“The Divine Herald of Andraste, ransacking the cellar in the middle of the day? Scandalous.” he hiccups between quiet sobs, he’s certain his whole face is now covered in kohl, and Ray smiles- radiant, loving, as if he was the most beautiful thing in the world.

“It’s you who brings it out of me, Treasure.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so sorry mom


End file.
